A Paladin's Sojourn
by Alejandro Artiles
Summary: The most unlikely paladin ever, from the secluded nation of Gilneas, find himself in a desperate battle for survival, and his sojourn will lead him to a secret hidden before the creation of Azeroth itself...
1. Chapter 1: Uncommon Champion

I've always been alone. Not that it matters. Ever since my kingdom, Gilneas, closed its doors to the world, I knew my path was exile. I was not going to close my eyes to this world's suffering. I'm not the holiest of paladins, but I've done my best. I made mistakes, yes. But I try not to. It was my chance to prove I could help. I climbed the rafters of the Greymane Wall with nothing but my white shirt, my brown pants and my rusty sword behind my back. Nobody saw me. It was dark. I jumped out of my homeland, determined never to return. My destination? Northshire Abbey.

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Uncommon Champion**

My name is Varlus, from the Jenneson family. You're probably thinking I come from a noble family. You'd be wrong. My father was a farmer. My mother sold the products of her baking skills in Greymane City. The only member of my family that had anything of "noble" was my sister Anera, and she got herself killed during the Gilneas expedition to Kalimdor, in the midst of the Third War. She begged me to join her. I was in the middle of my paladin training. I couldn't leave. I still have her pendant. It was the biggest part of her that came back home.

I still remember my father's tales. Genn Greymane, Gilneas' King, refused to join the Alliance in the Second War. Arrogant. His army was, and in some ways still is, formidable. Doomhammer's forces were decimated the moment he tried to assault Greymane City. I was just a child. Don't remember much. Only horrific battlecries from the orcs as they perished under Gilnean steel. My sister got her first taste of blood that day, when she killed a troll with her hands. Always strong-willed.

In order to get to Northshire, the first step is to pass through Forsaken territory in order to get to the Arathi Highlands, and Westfall after that. They're not guilty. Sylvanas is a victim. She cares for her people, that's all. However, I am living, and they are dead. Probably going to make my journey painful.

I ran under the moonlight, minding my step, an eye on the shadows. I had heard Gilnean patrols surrounded the area near the wall. I noticed blackened spots on the ground. Old blood. Human refugees fleeing Lordaeron. Scourge undead on their trail. Greymane said no. Arrogant. Everyone died. The few guards that tried to help the poor souls were either killed or imprisoned. Bastard.

I kept running. The road quickly led to a dense, evil looking forest: Silverpine Forest. There was no turning back. It was probably a bad idea, but I went in.

Owls. The tall trees obscured the moonlight, flooding the forest in an eerie darkness. The path leading through it was partially hidden by dense foliage. My leather boots echoed like Warsong battle drums. I slowed my pace down; didn't want everyone in the vicinity to become aware of my presence. After a couple of minutes of going through the forest, I ran across a destroyed trading caravan. It was goblinish in nature: the shape and color, a vivid green, along with the way its woodwork had been molded and handled was a dead giveaway of Booty Bay handiwork. Sure enough, after walking around it, I found a heavily injured goblin breathing what were probably his last gasps lying on the cold ground. His eyes looked calm, nevertheless, fixed looking upwards as if to catch a last glimpse of a sky that wasn't there. I walked near him, kneeled down, and did a quick inspection.

The goblin had been attacked by gnolls. The bluntness of the axe wound on his chest (it was clearly an axe wound: the cut didn't open from side to side, as it happens with all fencing weapons, but rather all at once, suggesting the weapon was logded there with great force for a few moments, then torn out) along with the crudeness with which the numerous bolts (most probably fired with a crossbow) lying on the ground and a few still in the dying one's leg, were clear signs of a gnoll raid. They never stole valuables; I could see a somewhat expensive looking, quite cracked tall mirror and a faint grayish glint that clearly shouted "silver" amongst the wreckage. The battle scars left on the ruined wood and linen also showed gnoll signs, reinforcing my previous idea.

One more thing I noticed was that the goblin was not travelling alone. There were many goblin footprints running along the area, so unless this nearly dead goblin ran faster than a zeppelin, he was obviously accompanied. However, there were some different footprints running away from the caravan for half a yard before stopping, meaning he/she/it had been either captured or killed. Striding away from the goblin and closer to those tracks, I found no significant blood traces that would justify a death, though that was no insurance at all. Something else caught my eye: the fleetness with which it had fled, along with its general shape and size, were clearly the distinct markings of a night elf. What was a night elf doing travelling with Booty Bay goblins in a caravan through Silverpine Forest?

I left that mystery for later, and I walked back to the goblin on the ground.

"It's a deep cut. You've lost much blood. There's little I can do to save you" I said, kneeling beside him once again. The goblin tilted its head slowly towards me. There was a sort of resigned smile in his face as he watched me. He did not speak, though it wasn't clear if he wouldn't or if he couldn't. I began the incantation to cast my healing spell, but the goblin quickly grasped my hand in a gesture quite remarkable considering his condition. Needless to say, the spell was interrupted.

"Save… your energy." His voice was raspy, shallow, a definite death whisper. Just the action of looking at me seemed to drain his energies like a mana sap, let alone speaking. He must've been a tough one, though, because he slowly and painfully opened his mouth to speak again.

"I'm… already gone. Your spells cannot replace… the blood I lost, paladin." He coughed some blood as a period, spraying my shirt.

"How do you know I'm a paladin?" I inquired.

The goblin smiled again, then winced in pain. He drew breath again. "No priest wields a sword… and you don't look like one either." Good point. He sighed. "Who are you, paladin?"

"Varlus. Of the Jenneson family."

"You don't wear the markings… of any human kingdom. Where…" He wheezed in agony, then resumed. "Where are you from?"

"Gilneas" I answered.

The goblin frowned slightly at this last declaration, presumably not understanding how a Gilnean human was outside of Gilneas. After a few seconds it dawned on him, as evidenced by his reappearing smile.

"A deserter… you're a rare sight alright."

I ignored that last comment and pressed on with more relevant issues; the goblin had not much life left.

"Your caravan was attacked by gnolls, right?" The goblin gave the most pained of nods. "Where are them? Did they take prisoners?"

The goblin took a very deep breath. I knew at that moment he was going to talk for the last time. He even bent upwards a little.

"We were… travelling to Pyrewood village to deliver trading goods and other cargo." His voice sounded clearer now, perhaps even stronger. "A night elf huntress joined us as a guard and sentinel… She goes by the name…" He hesitated as he recalled. "Arcanna. Arcanna Silverveil. We were en route… to the town, but we ran a little late… we arrived at twilight. And… and…"

"You were attacked by the Worgen" I finished. The goblin nodded.

"We ran. The huntress brought down many of those… beasts. But she was still mortal. By the time we got far enough away from the Worgen, the huntress was… exhausted. And then… the gnolls attacked. More than twenty of them. She was taken away. So were some of my kin. There rest were murdered… just like me."

He was about to go. But I still needed one more vital piece of information.

"Where did they take them?"

The goblin gasped horribly. I seized him and tried to keep him alive for just a while longer. He coughed some more blood, and his eyes went in and out of focus. In his gurgling and gasping, the goblin uttered a single, last word:

"…Peril."

Then he fell still, his eyes finally calm, his chest no longer throbbing with pain, his heart finally at rest after being in an impossible struggle to stay beating. I laid him on the cold ground, over his own blood. There was no time for a burial. From the caravan's wreckage, I salvaged what I could: a leather armor of poor quality, but still better than my shirt alone; some healing potions, and a map. I realized with a single look at the map what my next destination was: Beren's Peril, a zone of caverns east from Pyrewood. I didn't know why, but I felt compelled to rescue that huntress. I adjusted my boots and began running again, leaving the wreckage and the body of my nameless goblin friend behind, bathed in the moonlight that finally found its way through the leaves and branches, as if to mourn the goblin and give him his (probably) deserved last rites.

From what I knew of Beren's Peril, it was a system of caverns originally inhabited by all sorts of wild creatures, gnolls included. The only thing that made me skeptical of all that was the fact than, when the Scourge hit with its unholy might over the land, it decimated all life, and that just HAD to include the fauna at Beren's Peril. So it basically reduced to two options: either the Scourge omitted obliterating life in those caverns, which was very unlikely, or they did kill everything but left those ravenous gnolls alive for some probably evil and/or convenient purpose. The latter option seemed more likely the closer I got to the Peril, since the number of undead creatures of all kinds (both conventional and not) increased exponentially as I sprinted through the blighted, rotted ground and thick, putrid green mist, a staple of Scourge dominance in any area. I was careful to avoid skeletal patrols that popped out of the dense, dead foliage every now and then, primarily for concealment purposes (I didn't want to alert all Silverpine that I was on a rescue/revenge mission) and also because I knew my sword was weak and my powers very diminished from lack of training and usage respectively, so I preferred to save my strength and my blade's for the upcoming unavoidable battle. About half an hour later, after much sneaking and avoiding, I arrived at Beren's Peril entrance, where a possibility I had not foreseen appeared in front of me, as I hid under some bushes.

A single gnoll, wielding a dangerous-looking, bloodstained morning star and wearing a ragged and broken padded armor strolled by, obviously on patrol duties. But it wasn't this fact that unsettled me and made me uneasy. As he gazed around his surroundings, I noticed his eyes glinted with a very soft yet still recognizable red haze. To an inexperienced observer, perhaps this would have meant nothing, or perhaps a bloodlust spell still in effect, but I knew better. That unnerving haze, along with the uncharacteristic calm, almost uninterested way it moved around its assigned post, were the clear signs of undeath. Upon more detailed examination, I noticed his skin was pockmarked with open sores, still oozing the little blood remaining in its circulatory system. A particularly large chunk of flesh was missing just below its left ear, perhaps even cut off, and its skull was clearly (for the trained eye, that is) visible underneath. Its walk was somewhat clumsy and, as mentioned, extremely calm and slow; a sign of lack of free will. My mind drifted away from the hideous parody of a gnoll in front of me and returned to the now deceased goblin near the wrecked carriage. For a moment, I failed to understand how the goblin could not have noticed he and his companions were attacked by undead gnolls, but then I analyzed that if they were attacked in the middle of the night, suddenly enough, while on the run from the Worgen at Pyrewood, then Arthas himself could have attacked them, and they would have seen a Scarlet Crusader, or a Stormwind guard.

Returning to more pressing matters, I evaluated my chances. Jumping out to attack the creature was a bad idea, not only because undead gnolls were quite durable and resilient, but because upon a second, more thorough scan of the area I noticed other undead gnolls who would surely notice me slaughtering one of their kin. Sneaking through the creatures was an even worse plan, since I was neither a rogue nor a night elf, thus eliminating shadowmelding from my skills. Also, once inside the caverns a confrontation was inevitable, and all the gnolls I bypassed before would most certainly be alerted, forcing me to battle against overwhelming odds. It was clear that total annihilation of the gnolls was the soundest plan, but I was still unsure how to do it. I allowed the nearest gnoll to continue his patrol while I weighed my options.

However, it seemed fate got tired of my analytical approach to the situation I was in, and placed a thick, noisy, and above all easily breakable tree branch under my right foot, which, in the attempt of giving my almost cramped legs a few seconds of rest, I snapped loudly.

It was a hollow, quite sound. In the context I was in, though, it was like a thousand goblin mines going off at unison under my feet. The undead creature picked up the sound immediately, turned its head in a visible (and somewhat loud) snap, and scanned the group of bushes I was hiding in thoroughly. I was pretty concealed, but white shirts don't blend easily with dark green, almost brownish bushes. The gnoll couldn't fully detect my presence, in any case, but he did know something was amiss within those plants. It screwed its eyebrows, as if heavily processing his next move in its dead brain, and after a few but eternal seconds did the logical thing to do: he began to stumble forwards towards the thick bushes in front of him in order to have a closer look. I quickly checked the other gnolls: they hadn't been alarmed by my misstep. They were also somewhat far. It was now or never, I realized, as I calmly drew my worn blade. The gnoll got close enough to sniff me, so I waited no longer and jumped out.

However, I had missed another thing as my mind desperately nudged me in midjump, as it always did when I forgot something. I violently decapitated the undead gnoll that heard the sound, its dead head blown away from the force of the slash. It fell to the ground with a disgusting mix of a thud and a squishing sound, as the rest of the carcass followed suit. By the time I landed on the blighted ground, I noticed the reason of my uneasiness. There were about twenty undead gnolls around me, axes and morning stars and crossbows and even bare fists all ready to mince me to shreds. I found no logical explanation for their sudden appearance: undeath can bring about many different powers, but shadowmelding was not one of them. As they snarled hungrily, eager to feast on both my flesh and soul, I noticed several of them sported arrow wounds, and some even had the arrows attached still. Evidently, this was the same squad that hit the caravan before, and those wounds were surely the ones made from the huntress, whom I was about to join. I braced myself for the upcoming beating, dropping into a defensive stance, sword in front of me, while I stepped back carefully as the circle of creatures followed me closely.

"You should never have crawled out from Gilneas, paladin" said a cold, certainly evil voice nearby. I spun around, nearly toppling over the gnoll I just slaughtered, and I saw the reason that gnoll death squad appeared so suddenly. It was a warlock, standing just outside of the gnoll ring, almost concealed in darkness, a dark aura surrounding him. Crimson and dark blue were his robes, his face half hidden under a blood red hood, the only visible part of it was the black goatee beard the warlock sported, and his cold smirk, clearly a sign he was the master behind those undead gnolls. Probably its creator too. A warlock leading a group of undead gnolls who happened to kidnap a night elf huntress and a bunch of goblins that were travelling through Silverpine Forest?

Nothing made sense anymore, though maybe that was because of the spell the warlock immediately casted on me, hitting me with the force of a hurricane and knocking me unconscious almost instantly. It seems my adventures outside of Gilneas had meet an abrupt end, at the end of a warlock's staff. I felt a last pull on my legs as the gnolls picked me up to join the huntress I tried to rescue, whether that was in death or in prison, I wasn't sure. I felt a last surge of sleepiness, and then everything was as dark as the Twisting Nether.


	2. Chapter 2: The Hair Of The Huntress

**CHAPTER TWO**

**The Hair of the Huntress**

"Wake up, paladin."

I didn't want to. I was way too injured to perform the small miracle of opening my eyes. I could still feel lightheaded and very sore; my body ached every time I took a breath. I could feel my own blood, both dry and fresh, staining my whole physiognomy. The many cuts on my chest still bled, but only a small amount now. Whether the crimson flow was slowing down because my wounds were healing or because my heart was getting tired of pumping, I couldn't say. The latter explained the lightheadedness, but then again, the warlock's spell had been colossal. I also felt cold, the upper part at least, ascertaining I was bare-chested. And a female voice was talking to me, telling me to wake up, to open my eyes, to see my prison and possibly my jailer as well. And all I wanted was to lie there (or, to be more precise, hang there) and sleep, perhaps even die.

"I know you're not knocked out" the female voice continued, "for I can feel your heart beating rhythmically inside your chest. The breath of life has not left you yet, holy warrior. Open your eyes."

The voice went silent, as if awaiting a reaction. A small part of me felt sad for that, because hers was the most soothing voice I had ever heard. Did the voice belong to a spirit healer, an angel of peace, a beacon of hope? I did not know. Her voice filled me with energy, with health, with light. Where was I? Was I really alive? The pain was almost gone. Was I dying? Was that holy voice summoning me to the afterlife? I could not stand it anymore; I opened my eyes.

Reality, as always, proved to be far, far different from my fantasies. I was chained to a wall of rock, in what seemed to be the depths of Beren's Peril. A bloodstained, obsidian, square-shaped altar rested just out of reach in front of me, covered by a yellow, ragged cloth. A heart still throbbing with the inertia of life laid upon it, with clear signs of having been torn out of its cavity only moments ago. Blood covered most of the altar and its surroundings. There was also a silver dagger stabbed firmly in the altar, blood covering what little could be seen of its blade and some parts of the golden hilt as well. There was not much left to see; only skeletons of different sizes, some still with flesh on them, covered the surrounding walls. The scene was hauntingly disgusting, save for one small detail.

Next to me, smiling weakly and looking at me, was a night elf. The voice that had talked to be probably belonged to her. Her pointy ears were pointing down in an unmistakable sign of resignation, tiredness and sadness. Her eyes were still glinting with the characteristic blue of a night elf warrior, but the gleam was not as strong as I remembered it to be. Perhaps it was another sign of her waning strength. Her skin, while obviously purple, was a shade darker than normal, though maybe the combination or poor lighting and the many injuries she had sustained, not to mention my own tiredness, gave me that impression.

I would have never figured out who that night elf was were it not for her hair. While obviously dirty and far from its perfect state due to our present condition, it was still a marvel to behold: pearly white, waist-length, it was as if the night elf was wearing a silk cloth on her head, a coif of glory, a piece of the moon woven into her hair.

She opened her mouth to speak. "I am glad you are awake, holy warrior. I am—"

But I knew her name. "Arcanna Silverveil. I know." I was surprised of the enormous amount of effort it took me to talk. The night elf was also surprised, both by the little energy I possessed and by the fact her identity was not unknown to me. She blinked. I breathed deep and felt a sharp stab of pain on my back: one of my lungs (possibly both) was ripped, stabbed or pierced.

"How do you know my name?" she asked. I could see she was no longer smiling.

"A goblin told me" I said, noting my very shallow and weak voice. "You were journeying with them to Pyrewood, right? I found the caravan's wreckage: no survivors. Only one, but he didn't last long. Couldn't do anything. He gave me the information necessary to find this place… and your name. It was his last act on this world."

"I was protecting them, yes" said the huntress, struggling a bit to find a less uncomfortable position. "I joined the caravan while it passed through Southshore. We met at the local inn, they mentioned their trip to Pyrewood and I offered my help since I knew Silverpine Forest is not a place to be traveled lightly. But alas," she sighed sadly, "my bow and glaive were not enough." Now she looked away. Was she hiding tears? Why did she care that much for a bunch of goblins she hardly knew?

She turned her face back to me. "How were you captured?"

Now it was my turn to sigh, albeit with considerable pain. "I screwed up. Didn't notice the whole gnoll death squad or the warlock commanding them until it was too late."

"Him!" spat the huntress bitterly. "Who is that human? Why is he in charge of these creatures?"

"I don't know. He hasn't said anything to you?"

She shook her head, her ears following suit comically. "I only saw him once, and not clearly, it was only a blur of red." She paused for a second. "What do you think he wants from us?"

I considered it for a moment. "Judging by the skeletons and all the lovely scenery, I'd say he wants our body parts."

The huntress looked revolted. "Why would he want our body parts? Who can be that insane?"

"Him, apparently." I pointed with my head towards the numerous skeletons. "They haven't been eaten by gnolls… well, not all of them, anyway. Look at the ones to your right that still have flesh attached to them: the missing bits have been torn out cleanly and neatly, as if a butcher did it. That was a knife's work, not teeth. In fact… I think the knife on the altar was the one used to skin those poor fools."

Arcanna went silent for a moment, lowering her head. Perhaps she was picturing the warlock skinning those corpses. I, for one, was busy thinking how to escape. Those restraints, while crude, were not something I could release by myself; given the context we were in, they were most likely held clamped together by magical means. The knife was way out of reach, and even if it were close, my cramped and badly beaten legs could never have grasped it firmly. Nor was any chance to grab one of the places' many torches and burn away one of my hands to free myself. No matter the angle I looked at it, it seemed our only chance to escape, for now, was to wait for external factors to appear.

Arcanna reared her head back up. "Why did you come here, paladin?"

It was a question I expected, but was not totally ready to answer. Because she had a point: why did I go to Beren's Peril? It was out of my way. It was of no business or interest of mine. Then it became clear.

"It was my duty. I couldn't just leave you or any survivors here to die."

Arcanna smiled, but I had more to say. "There was also a sense of revenge. Don't ask me why, I don't know. I shouldn't have felt that, I've been trained not to."

"I am still grateful you are here, paladin." I forced a smile; my face muscles screamed in protest. "What is your name?"

"Varlus. Of the Jenneson family."

She nodded. "Varlus Jenneson. I was wondering something… the goblin has told you my name, but how did you know it was me? You did not know how I looked like. Or did you?"

Her question was not out of impatient suspicion, but of calm curiosity. Her eyes were fixed on mine, as if trying to find the answer in my mind, without words. I smiled again.

"I knew the instant I saw you. You truly honor your name, Arcanna Silverveil."

For a moment as she looked away once more I thought I spotted a few shades of scarlet in her purple cheekbone. Did she blush? That question, however, had to be left unanswered, since my instincts warned me of a third presence in the damp cave. Arcanna felt it before me, since her ears became fully erect and she faced forward abruptly, as tense as I was.

She did blush.

"How touching, Gilnean. It's a pity you two won't make it through the day. A half human, half night elf would surely be one for the books of history of this world. A true first."

"I can see him" whispered Arcanna, looking at a somewhat general direction near the altar. Well, 'somewhat general direction' just didn't cut it for me.

"Show yourself" I ordered. I heard a whooshing sound.

"Ah, but of course. I forgot your sense at detecting unseen things is quite subpar."

With that, our enemy materialized. His was an odd appearance, though certainly in the evil range. He was wearing a blood-red cloak with purple rivets, very regal and arcane looking, which covered his whole physique. What lied beneath was cleverly concealed and hidden, at least for my eyes. He was also wearing a collar made of skulls which was deeply sickening, not just because of the skulls themselves, rather because these skulls' tiny size suggested they once belonged to human babies. One of these skulls still had an eye stuck into its right eye socket, its bloodshot gaze lost in an unfathomable expression of horror and pain. Resisting the urge to throw up, I looked upwards to his face, no longer hidden by the hood.

"Monster…" uttered Arcanna, furious.

The warlock laughed at her. "So are you, oh huntress. So are you."

He grinned, and that detail finished to wrap up a pure evil visage. His skin was almost gray and sunken; his skull clearly noticeable. His eyes were waxy and without any spark of life of any kind. Even his hair looked dead, like a crude rug forcibly glued onto his heavily wrinkled and scorched head. Was he an undead too? Somehow I didn't think so. He clearly noticed I was looking at him, and my face must have been screwed in disgust and repulsion, because he stared at me, grinned again (his teeth looked rotten) and gave me a rather unnerving and exaggerated bow.

"Appealing, aren't I?" He stood back upright. "I'm afraid to say my luck with the female gender has been completely null as of late. Not like my young ages at all, for certain." He laughed horribly.

"I wonder why" I commented with no real interest, my mind still bent on figuring out a way out of our prison.

"I do wonder what our huntress has to say about that fact? My dear, you sure have been awfully silent since your last compliment."

Arcanna couldn't hold it anymore: arcing what little she could forwards she vomited the contents of her stomach on the rocky floor. Perhaps the nauseating smell that impregnated our prison had finally gotten to her, or maybe her mind projected the image of the warlock infatuated with a woman. In any case, the warlock looked extremely amused, laughing manically.

"Oh my. Certainly not a display up to your noble and regal standards, oh huntress" cackled the warlock amidst the laughter. I still needed more time to think.

"What do you want from us, warlock?" I asked. It worked, for the warlock slowly turned towards me again with an interested look.

"Now, that is the first interesting thing I've heard so far. Allow me to explain my plan to you, Gilnean."

"How do you know I'm from Gilneas?"

"Your clothes' tailoring is most certainly Gilnean. Your sword is, pardon me, _was_ a fine example of Gilnean steel. Your attitude as well as that mark on your right forearm clearly shout Gilneas. Any more examples?" For some reason he seemed uneasy.

"How do you know I'm a paladin?"

"I saw you trying to heal that goblin in the forest. You have neither the garments nor the disposition nor the power of a priest."

He was clearly fed up with my questions, but I had to keep him talking. "But how do—"

"Shut up!" he roared, and casted a spell at me. I had just opened my mouth to keep talking or scream or insult him when it hit me. At first glance it seemed to do nothing, but when I tried to speak or make any sound at all I felt like an iron fist was squeezing my windpipe. I had been muted, thus losing the only weapon I had. Glancing to my side, I saw Arcanna was still looking down and trembling. Was she really that nauseous?

"I will speak now" began the warlock. "What I want from you two, Gilnean, is simple: your life essence. I need it to empower myself and my army. Now, before you even begin to think these pathetic gnolls are my army, let me tell you these are nothing more but live, in a matter of speaking of course, dummies for my true army. They need to train, test their skills, powers, and overall effectiveness and potential. What better way to do that than to use already dead creatures such as this?" It had logic. "Releasing them from the Lich King's control and bending them over to me was very easy… after all, if those Forsaken losers could do it…" He paused for a second, and he could see my question in my eyes. "No, Gilnean. I am not just another mad soul looking for simple conquest. I serve a higher purpose. A far more impending doom looms over this damned world, Gilnean."

He walked forward until he was face to face with me. I still saw no way out and I felt I was running out of time.

"Put it this way… the Burning Legion was our lapdog."

My plans for escaping vanished, since that revelation left me awestruck and petrified. What could possibly be more terrible than the Legion? Which immensely powerful syndicate of evil could dare to call the Legion 'their lapdog'? But his eyes had changed: they were now shining with a soft shade of violet.

"We are the Apocalypse of this world, Gilnean. The End. The Cleansing. We are the Ones that Rule. We See. We Conquer. We Define. We Reign. We are We, and You, and Them. We are All. We simply Are. And you two will form part of It" the warlock whispered in a prophetical tone over my ear. His putrid breath creeped up my nostrils. He was so immersed in his devotion to this unknown force that he did know realize Arcanna was somehow free from her shackles. I quickly looked back to him to keep the element of surprise.

"Humans. Night elves. Dwarves. Orcs and tauren and trolls and gnomes and every single existing thing on this world belongs to Us. We cannot be denied. We must not be denied. We were Created to rule!" he shouted, spitting me with every word.

"Not anymore, warlock."

Before he could realize who or what had spoken, his head was slammed headlong into the wall by Arcanna's mighty kick, his skull cracking audibly. Master of dark magic he might have been, but he was clearly no match for Arcanna's evident domain of melee fighting, and he realized that as he stood against the wall on the receiving end of the huntress' revenge. Before he could utter a word, the huntress kicked the dagger from the altar free, stunned the warlock with a well aimed punch at his jaw, caught the still flying dagger in the air, pinned her victim on the wall with her arm and raised the weapon in her left hand, getting ready for the killing blow.

"Big… mistake…" mumbled the warlock as he could, a drop of violet blood slipping from his mount and into Arcanna's arm.

"I made many" replied the huntress, and sank the small blade up to its hilt into our enemy's neck. Surprisingly, he didn't gasp or scream or anything, though his eyes surely displayed the expectable surprise of impending death. He slumped to the floor and just sat there like a statue, eyes wide open, but not really looking at anything. He stopped breathing with yet another grin. Unceremoniously, Arcanna kneeled and pulled the dagger from his throat. It made a clean sound.

The constricting feeling in my throat had lifted, and only then was I sure that the warlock was no more. I looked to the huntress, who was now examining my bonds. I had to make the obvious question.

"How?"

Not surprisingly, though certainly unfitting, she smiled.

"I do have some arcane knowledge. That is why my hair is white."

"Silvery" I objected, as she opened my cuffs with ease. The warlock's spell had probably lifted, but maybe she accomplished this by means of his new, unknown talent.

"Use your magic, Varlus, and heal us. Then let us leave this place. Take the dagger, I can defend myself barehanded."

I left her hair's mystery for later.


	3. Chapter 3: Braving The Peril

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Braving The Peril**

Beren's Peril extended as far as the eyes could see. Crevices, chasms, pitfalls, stalagmites and their counterparts… And on top of that, the gnolls and other undead horrors patrolled the endless, darkened corridors. Unlike the hellish prison we were just in, the rest of the caverns were not tainted by the burning crimson of death, rather a (heavenly looking, as far as I was concerned) strange mix of blue and green. The corridors were quite wide and fairly rough shaped, with lots of ramps and rocks that gave Arcanna quite the advantage thanks to her agility. I inspected my dagger: it wasn't a bad blade by any means, but I was really untrained with short weapons. Since Arcanna was a huntress, I offered the short blade to her, but she vehemently refused, flapping her head side to side vigorously.

"Arcanna, listen to me, I'm no good with daggers!" I pleaded.

"No. I can fight barehanded quite skillfully. You need not worry about me" she denied with a cute smile. How could I not worry about her, where I nearly died trying to rescue her? Unacceptable.

"I can fight barehanded as well, and you'll make much better use of it than me" I insisted.

"I will feel much less worried if you have it, Varlus. Please."

I was taken by surprise by the huntress' declaration. Her eyes, her faint smile and overall face expression took my mind away of all doubts, eradicating my apprehensions instantly and leaving me with the purest truth: she was truthfully, genuinely worried about my integrity and wellbeing. I found myself with no visible way of continuing the discussion, since my brain was jammed.

"Varlus, you look lost" said Arcanna, and she was right.

"I…"

I was at a loss of words save for that simple yet meaningful letter, gazing almost stupidly to the huntress' eyes. Why did she worry about me? As far as I knew (or, apparently, thought I knew), night elves were not known for being very social or trusting someone of a different race quickly. They were often defined, accurately enough, as isolationists, minding their own business and almost never caring much for the others'. One needs only remember how much time and effort (not to mention lives) it took Jaina Proudmoore (leader of the human "kingdom" of sorts of Theramore and Heroine of the Third War, just in case someone clueless enough reads this journal) to gain Tyrande Whisperwind (see Jaina's description, switch "human kingdom of Theramore" for "leader of the Sentinel faction of Night Elves and current regent of Darnassus, the night elf capital" and add "Priestess of the Moon") and all of the night elves' trust. So what was Arcanna's case? She had no reason to trust and confide in a simple human paladin, no matter the sacrifices I made, which weren't many. And what if I'd lied to her, and I wasn't a paladin but a petty thief or a vicious murderer or worse? I imagine she would've noticed, but then again, what if she hadn't?

"Varlus?" called Arcanna from what seemed a very faraway place, no longer smiling.

Perhaps it was love? The mere thought of it being true was preposterous, yet the feeling was there, nagging me constantly. But what exactly was that feeling? I had to wonder: was it only a deduction and the eagerness of knowing if it was correct or not, or rather something that had never happened before? Could it be that it was a feeling of desire, a wish for it to either be or become true? At that moment, I couldn't say. I was never loved in my life; I had my share of encounters with the opposite sex, true, but they were only that: encounters, run-ins, one night stands. None of them were in love with me, even though they did say it sometimes; nor did I love them, and neither I said so. The fact a woman, and a night elf at that, was in love with me filled me with a kind of happiness and passion like I had never known, but also a despairing sense of fear and dread. Or rather, denial? My mind was full of doubts.

"Varlus, behind you!" bellowed Arcanna. I was shaken out of my soul-searching trance and turned around to see a fairly sharp bladed object flying directly towards my face. I could have dodged it easily, but behind me Arcanna was standing ready to rush into attack, and she would've taken the full hit. I braced myself for the unavoidable sting I would soon be feeling, but before I did I felt Arcanna's hand fiercely pushing me to my right.

"Leave it to me. Watch my back, Varlus" she calmly ordered as I stumbled to her side and she dropped into a fighting stance. I recovered rapidly and was about to push her out of the blade's way when she gave a clear demonstration of her skills.

Left leg to the front, Arcanna waited for the perfect time to dodge. As the blade came closer to her she sidestepped to the right and lunged forward, positioning her hands above and below the blade, as if accompanying its flight. Once her grip was secure, she twisted her hands and the blade rolled up in midair. Fanciful and amazing move, but she left herself exposed to a second undead gnoll that was already aiming its crossbow towards her. We both noticed at the same time, and I decided it was my turn to act: ignoring Arcanna's plea to stay back, I ran in front of her and tried to block the incoming projectiles with my tiny blade; two of them were sent to the ground and wall respectively and one hit me in the shoulder. I screamed in pain; it had hit a nerve for sure since it hurt like a hot brazier, and it was even more painful to tear off. Behind me, a sudden gust of wind told me Arcanna had taken grasp of the sword and was ready to retaliate.

"Kneel!" she ordered with a firmer voice. As I did so, I felt another rush of air above me; I looked up and saw the huntress had charged at the crossbow-wielding gnoll, but she wasn't running or jumping; unbelievably enough, she was _flying_ to her enemy, gliding through the air with majestic grace, almost like a ghost, a rictus of anger and battle-readiness across her face, her hair drawing countless strings of silvery, absolute beauty through the air. I was left to admire Arcanna's flight breathlessly when I spotted a third gnoll armed with a morning star preparing to attack Arcanna in midflight. I ran towards him, dagger in hand, and leaped to stab the weapon in its thick, rotten skull, only it wasn't there anymore, my weapon sinking into the exposed insides of the now dead (again) gnoll's neck. While landing back on the ground I saw a glimpse of Arcanna's face smiling at me; she had spun in midair gracefully, decapitating the gnoll in the process. I got up and looked around: it seemed as if time had stopped, for the gnoll the huntress had originally targeted was still standing in the same spot it was moments ago. Undead gnolls were kind of dumb, but not that dumb as to stand still while a flying night elf huntress armed with a blade was flying towards them with murderous intentions. Then I thought maybe she used some kind of magic to root the foul creature in place. Maybe her magic was making everything slower than it actually was and she was in fact moving at normal speed, or maybe she was making herself faster than her surroundings; at that time and place I could believe anything.

Arcanna had finally reached her target. Helplessly, the gnoll timidly raised his half bony, half rotten hands in a pathetic attempt to defend himself against the silvery-haired herald of fury and death rushing to him. Meanwhile, the remaining gnoll sat quietly across the chasm in the room, preparing a bone made bow to attack us from distance. Devoid of weapons and lacking the huntress' powers of flight and/or levitation, I did the only thing I could: smite him with an exorcising spell. It drained my energies considerably but seemed to do the trick, since the creature staggered back howling painfully, angry red burns all over him. Arcanna landed back on her feet over the other gnoll's carcass, and for a moment there she seemed tired, but she performed yet another amazing feat: she threw the blade with her left hand towards the burned gnoll, and it flew in a beautiful arc towards its head, chopping it off with a large gush of blackened blood. Then the blade unexplainably continued its circling path, flying back in another arc (that I had to dogde) towards the huntress' hand. She seized the now ranged weapon and smiled again, the danger momentarily over.

"Are you okay?" she asked, noticing the bolt wound on my shoulder, her smile fading instantly. But the wound was the least of my worries.

"I don't mean to sound rude here, Arcanna," I began, "but exactly what are your skills? I mean, I might be from Gilneas and not know a whole lot of the outside world, but I do know hunters do not possess flight or telekinesis skills…" I found it hard to explain in words what I had just seen. "The way you flew across the room, that boomerang sword trick… it was amazing, fantastic, completely stunning."

"You embarrass me greatly, Varlus" she said weakly, and accentuated her feeling by blushing violently and staring at the floor. She looked undeniably lovely. "I only do what I can."

"Never seen anything like it, and I've seen my fair share of battles. It seems your silvery hair is not your only unique trait, Arcanna." I couldn't help it: I smiled. She gazed at me for a second, then away, then back again into my eyes. She was deeply embarrassed. I would've mentioned she looked like a heavenly angel when she performed her flight, but I did not want to fluster her further. An eerie silence fell upon us, the kind of silence created for lovers to embrace in a lovely and passionate kiss. Don't get any ideas, for this was obviously not the case. Rather, my mind seized the moment to drift away from Arcanna and back into our situation and current objective: escaping the Peril. The skirmish surely upstirred the various gnoll nests in the caverns, so we were most certainly in for a bloody fight to the exit. Arcanna gave the the sword: it was a nice blade, certainly honoring the gnolls' excellent blacksmithing skills even in undeath, though it was a little rusty, probably from lack of use, or maybe excessive use. I gave Arcanna the dagger, which she took reluctantly, and prepared to brave the rest of the caverns. There were two choices from where we were: to the right a winding path had the certain look of carrying us into the deepest recesses of the Peril, which was not our intention: rather, we picked the central path, sloping upwards towards the surface.

Now properly armed, I began to be of more help to the huntress: my abilities and skills were a bit rusty, but I still managed to hold my own against the seemingly unstoppable wave of gnolls, skeletons, necromancers and the like that began to storm the ramp we were on. Arcanna continued to amaze me: if she was a total killing machine barehanded, she was a ravaging avatar of destruction if armed: the dagger seemed to blend in perfectly with her hand as she slaughtered (again) the hordes of darkness attacking us. I had to force my eyes away from the wonderful night elf and focused on the enemies engaging me. We also became a somewhat good team: Arcanna glided through the enemy formations sinking her dagger again and again on different creatures while I slashed away at anything that looked rotten, bony or different from a night elf female for that matter. After a good thirty minutes or so of intense fighting my body began to show signs of fatigue, but the huntress raged on and on, her death toll probably rating in the thousands.

"I'm feeling tired, Arcanna!" I shouted while stabbing a necromancer through the chest. Arcanna crashed two skeletons against the wall with a mighty kick, shattering them to dust, then pointed her free hand towards a group of gnolls. The creatures were violently slammed into a nearby rock, and their bones breaking under their putrid skin were clearly audible.

"Stay with me, Varlus! We're almost at the top!" she answered, rushing towards a fresh wave of ghouls coming down the ramp. Stay with me… it sounded so kind. I put that thought out of my mind and leaped over her into the middle of the ghoul pack, spinning around and thrashing every single ghoul in sight. I was showered in black blood. Arcanna was airborne again by the time I stopped, and landed a perverse kick into a necromancer's mouth, removing the head completely from the rest of the body. And then it happened: a horrendous creature, looking like remains from other monsters stitched together and emanating an extremely disgusting odor came stumbling down the ramp.

"Holy—" I began to curse.

"It's an abomination!" screamed Arcanna, fear noticeable in her voice. "Goddess be praised, how are we supposed to take it down?"

She had a point: the so called "abomination" was massive, easily three or four times our size. It wielded two gigantic cleavers, which he shook from side to side almost out of control, hurting itself. Its mouth opened…

"Must… feed!" it grumbled, in a voice of death.

I desperately looked for a viable weakness on the creature. Maybe its wide open belly… but it was far too big and clear a target to be able to hit it without opening ourselves to be sliced in half by one of those cleavers. Speaking of them, the creature slammed the right one into the wall making the corridor shake violently, small rocks and lots of dirt showering us. Both Arcanna and I coughed and gasped desperately for fresh air. The situation was clearly unfavorable, and then my mind clicked again: its head.

"I'm gonna need your help, Arcanna" I breathed over the dust.

"Whatever you say, I will do, Varlus" said the huntress, visibly scared for the first time.

"I need you to throw me towards its head. That's its weak spot… I think."

Arcanna opened her eyes wide as we dodged a boulder sent our way. It was getting close, time was running out, and I could clearly see she was going to argue over the plan. Surely enough, she shouted "Varlus, are you insane! You want to give yourself so easily to Death's embrace?"

"No time to argue over it!" I cartwheeled towards the huntress to dodge another rock. "It's our only chance!"

"No! It cannot be!"

I grasped Arcanna and jumped away from a falling piece of ceiling.

"Do you trust me?" I asked.

"As I do the Goddess, but—"

"Arcanna" I repeated calmly, "do you trust me?"

She was silent for a moment, and my eyes dived into the blue pools of divinity that made hers. She swallowed hard, and nodded.

"Then let's do this." I positioned myself in front of the huntress, shattering an incoming boulder with my sword. "Once I'm on top of this sucker, do not, I repeat, do not intervene in the battle. Keep our flanks clear from other monsters, but do not attack the abomination. I'll need to keep its attention on me if I want the plan to work."

"What is your plan?" said Arcanna behind me.

"The creature's clumsy and dumb. If I play my cards correctly, it will destroy itself in the attempt of killing me. See how it hits itself with those cleavers every time it swings them? If I remain fast enough, I will force it to cleave off its own extremities. I don't think it will endure much of that before going down."

"Then let me do it!" protested Arcanna, this time validly.

"No. You've already exposed yourself enough. Time for me to face the Peril."

"But—"

"Arcanna, we're running out of time!" We dodged more boulders coming at us: the creature was now dangerously close. "I don't want you to expose yourself any more than you already have. I have to do this. It must be me. I haven't done anything worthy up until this point. Trust me. That's all I ask."

Arcanna was silent. I thought I heard a sob behind me. Was she really… crying? I did not turn around: it would have been unbearable. I felt her soft hand on my shoulder. It burned, since it grasped my injured one, but I couldn't care less.

"I trust you, Varlus. And I thank you for—"

Time was up: the abomination raised its right cleaver. I casted the exorcism spell at it, which did feasible damage but sent it back a little.

"Now! Do it!" I ordered. I felt the rush of wind behind me, and then I was catapulted towards the monstrosity, still stunned by my spell. Now I felt like Arcanna: darting forward with my sword pointing directly to my enemy. I raised my knees to increase aerodynamics, and it worked, since I landed on its left shoulder. Before it could react, I sank my blade on its left cheek: it roared strongly and thrashed around trying to find the culprit of his pain, and I had to grasp my sword tightly to avoid falling off. I could hear sounds of battle below me: Arcanna must have re-engaged the undead foes. After the monster stopped thrashing, I removed my blade from it and waited. It turned its head to me.

"Hit me now!" I taunted, and stabbed it in its nose. It roared again, and its breath nearly knocked me off it. This was not my intention: I wanted it to try and cut me down. I tore the sword away and ran up his left arm, hoping it was smart enough to try and swipe the cleaver at me. It did: I saw the blade raise, point at me, and start coming down.

"Varlus!"

Arcanna shouted for me, and I forced myself to ignore it, else I was dead; the cleaver came down, and a split second before it was about to hit me I leaped aside, creating the effect I intended: it ran through the whole arm horribly, and the amputated extremity fell towards the ground crushing countless undead in its wake. The abomination gave the loudest of roars and spun around itself in massive pain. By no means was it finished: it now gazed upon me with bloodshot eyes, trying to figure out how a mere human was able to hurt it so much. I slashed rapidly at its shoulder to taunt it even more, and I found out it wasn't a good idea, since it tried to eat me. I leapt away, however, and it ended up chewing its own shoulder. Then a massive gash of black blood hit me while I was midair and knocked me off it; my only chance was to stab the rocky wall to avoid plummeting down to the ground. I took a moment to check on Arcanna as the creature screamed in pain: she was faring well. Refocusing on my enemy, I saw it was now trying to put an end to my life as quick as possible, perhaps finally realizing the wounds were too severe. I prepared to jump back on it, but then I realized I had sank my blade too deep on the rock: I couldn't break it off the wall. I watched in horror how the remaining cleaver rose up again, grimly realizing I was a sitting duck. Then I had another clever idea. The abomination hit the space I was occupying in the wall, cracking the rock, but I had already jumped away from the attack, and the blade got freed from the cracking rock. I landed on the cleaver, leaping forwards and away from that lethal position, and stabbed the abomination deeply in one of its eyes. I had to look away as the huge amount of blood splurting out of its eye drenched me in darkness; I could barely hold on. But then I felt what I was eager to feel: falling forwards, falling, falling, the creature screaming its probable last sounds, then a very loud crash, and then, silence.

Rather than hearing, I felt her: her arms pulled me away from the sticky goo that oozed out of the dead creature's eye and closed around me. I could feel Arcanna's head on my chest, and I was sure she could hear my heartbeat.

"So worried…" she whispered in a crying sob.

"Told you I would be fine" I said, caressing her hair softly, which was a crime, since I spoiled its beauty with my blackened hands. She looked up to my face, and I looked down on hers, and our eyes met and screamed what words could not express due to lack of confidence and avoidance of pain, of sorrow, of denial.

The moment was broken again, for my senses tingled danger again: I separated from the huntress and gazed around… it could not be.

"Paladin, huntress… lay down your weapons. You may have brought down my abomination, but this is a battle you simply cannot win."

The voice was female. All around us skeleton archers and mages were aiming at us, ready to lay waste to our lives as soon as the order was given. I looked at Arcanna: she seemed to be thinking the same I was. Reluctantly, I dropped my sword and raised my hands as Arcanna threw down her dagger. We were too tired, too depressed to keep fighting. How could our luck be so rotten? Captured again… but by whom? A dark figure stepped forward from between the ranks of skeletons and into our circle. It was… her.

"You?" asked Arcanna, aghast.

"Where is the warlock?" replied Sylvanas Windrunner, throwing back her hood.


	4. Chapter 4: Not Forgotten

I've always been alone

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**Not Forgotten**

I was someone else…

_The sun was on its way to hiding behind Stonetalon Peak; half of its body already covered by the mountain range. The steppes surrounding the Peak were bathed in an amberine light, shimmering on the various rock formations and giving the scenery a fantastic, if somewhat eerie and foreboding, look. From the plateau where our settlement laid one could see the vast, windswept plains of Kalimdor looking extremely calm, save for the occasional orc raid party, whereas far in the distance a magnificent looking forest stood partially hidden behind the numerous mountains. Yes, the location was positively beautiful, save for a massive stain of red tainting the valley below us, product of a bloody skirmish against the Warsong clan of orcs. We only found one single thing that this land had in common with Azeroth: the Horde roamed these lands as well. This particular sent of creatures, led by the blademaster Sanchiro, had tried to storm our position in order to gain a more direct and secure passage to Stonetalon Peak's summit. Jaina had positioned her brigades from Kul Tiras, Stromgarde and Gilneas (or rather, Gilneas' desertors, which I led) at different strategic points along the mountains to protect the summit, where she and her elite guard explored the caverns within. Apparently, the orcs were seeking passage as well._

_I was smoking my meditation pipe somewhat absent-mindedly when a presence behind me interrupted my thoughts. I sensed his aura: he was an ally._

_"Miss Jenneson", he began. I turned around; it was Andriel, one of our elven priests._

_"Celestia. Please" I ordered with a smile. "I thought you were down there helping the wounded and taking care of our fallen. God knows we had too many of both."_

_"I was, Celestia, but there was something else" said the elf, apologizing._

_This was uncommon. I raised an eyebrow. "Well then, what is it?"_

_The elf pulled out a weathered envelope. "It's a letter from your brother, Varlus… we considered it important enough to bring it directly to you."_  
_I was mute with surprise and anger. A letter… after all my pleading and his blatant denial, after leaving me alone in this distant and forgotten land in favor of his oh-so-precious training, he had the audacity of writing me a letter!_

_"You considered wrong, Andriel" I replied, my expression hardening instantly. "I couldn't care less about my brother and his letters."_

_Andriel was surprised, his eyebrows raising visibly, and I knew what was to come._

_"Permission to speak freely, Celestia?" he requested, as I had predicted._

_"Granted" I acknowledged, though maybe the wisest thing to do was to deny it. Still, I couldn't say no to Andriel._

_"He is your brother, Celestia" he began._

_"I know."_

_"He loves you. He wants to know how you are. Gossip has it, you haven't answered any of his letters—"_

_"Since when does an elf care for gossip, Andriel?" I snapped._

_"Ever since you stopped talking to me" replied Andriel calmly. "And frankly, I see no other choice. Really, Celestia, consider our last month. We hardly spoke. We could not even share a hug."_

_"We're at war, Andriel, not back in the Academy." I was getting angry: how dare he bring that lack of affection between us to mind right at that moment?_

_"That is as good an excuse as any. Here is my theory: ever since we left Azeroth and came to these distant lands you became more and more silent, not to mention distant." I opened my mouth to protest, but Andriel raised a hand, stopping me before I even uttered a word. "You can say to me that the war is getting to you and that the massive bloodshed is driving you more detached from your feelings and emotions, but you and I both know that while a part of your current situation is indeed a side effect of this war effort, the truth is that ever since your brother said no you have been sinking deeper and deeper into sadness and despair. If I had to venture a guess—"_

_"Don't go there, Andriel" I interrupted, since I was following his train of thought and knew what was coming. "Don't you dare "venture a guess" about the relationship between my brother and I. Just don't."_

_Andriel paused. "All right. Still, the facts cannot be denied; your brother's denial has affected you far more than even you anticipated."_

_It was my turn to go silent, for he was right. As I always did when he spoke an uncomfortable truth, I turned away from him, gazing at the valley. I'd been going over Varlus' denial over my head several times since we arrived at Kalimdor, and I still felt hollow and empty without him. Then, of course, I redirected all that frustration in the form of anger towards him and by proxy, since he cared for me, to Andriel. I felt bad about it, for Andriel had always loved me deeply and with the greatest respect and tenderness. Ever since I was a little girl he was extremely kind and caring towards me, and eventually those same traits ended up winning me, for lack of a better term, and gaining my heart. Lately, though… well, I hated the thought, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that there was a certain fallout between us, like a chasm, a rift open just in the middle of our path. I could blame it to the war, to a feminine day, to the nasty weather… but no matter the excuses I threw, it all came back to one name: Varlus. My brother. The brother who abandoned me to follow his stupid Paladin training. As if a man so careless and lacking morals could ever become one! The mere thought of it was preposterous. Yet again, he was so hard-headed and strong-willed than when he put his mind on achieving something, he usually did. Perhaps if I received news that he had been ordered into the League of Greymane Paladins, I wouldn't have been that surprised._

_"Write back to Varlus, Celestia" said Andriel, bringing me back to where my body was, for my mind had drifted back to my homeland, "He wants to know how you are, that is all."_

_"I don't want him to know how I am!" I shouted back. Andriel took a step back. "I told him as much! "Let me go without you, and I will go forever"! As far as I'm concerned, I'm dead for him!"_

_"He loves you, Celestia."_

_"If he loved me, which I seriously doubt, he would be here and we wouldn't be having this argument!"_

_"He misses you. Can't you understand him for just a moment?"_

_"So do I, and you don't see me writing letters here and there to amend for mistakes and past denials!"_

_There was a pause. I breathed deep, trying to keep my temper at bay. But it was a losing battle._

_"I stay focused on the job. Perhaps he should do the same. After all, his "job" is what prevented him from joining me."_

_"Do you honestly think that? Do you really think he prefers to stay locked up in the abbey worried about you than out here, fighting to give you a hand?"_

_Another pause._

_"Honestly… I don't know what to think anymore" I said, turning back from him again, since my eyes began to feel watery and for some reason, I didn't want him to see me cry, even though he'd done it countless of times._

_"Okay… I will leave the letter in your desk. Maybe—"_

_"I won't even read it."_

_"Your choice, Celestia. I will not try to convince you to do something you do not want to do."_

_I repressed a sob._

_"I need to be alone, Andriel. Please… leave me alone."_

_"Celestia, if there is a time when you need someone to talk, it is now. Let me ease your pain… let me at least serve as—"_

_"You are dismissed, Priest Andriel" I cut._

_Andriel fell silent, and I could tell he was feeling impotent and helpless. In the end, I gave him no choice but to say "Yes, Miss Jenneson" and leave back the way he came. Only then I was safe to collapse on the ground and cry as I really wanted to._

There was a flash of green light, then a red one, a blue one, yellow, lilac, white, black, purple, pink, endless colors flashing in front of me. Where was I? Who was I? Had I been imprisoned? By whom? The Forsaken, most probably… Were they torturing me? What were the images that passed through my head? I saw them, but I could not comprehend them. Perhaps whoever was doing this to me was getting information? I wasn't sure. Truth be told, I wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"A compelling drama, but it serves me no real purpose whatsoever."

Voices… females, males… going in and out of focus, as if speaking from the other end an extremely long and wide tunnel… where were they?

"Perhaps we should try to go deeper?" said another unrecognized voice.

"At this time, it would be unadvisable" said a third voice. "We must give his mind time to get used to the procedure. Else, it will snap irreparably, and we will only have one more zombie to add to our army."

The first voice spoke again. "Very well. Then we continue watching this drama. At the very least, it will serve me as leverage to break him when the time comes."

"As you wish, milady" acknowledged the other two voices.

Milady… so I was a prisoner… ah, but thinking was an excruciating pain, much more than I could bear, so I stopped.

The lights grew brighter…

_The envelope Andriel had mentioned laid there, between the few candles that lighted my room and over a rough sketch of Stonetalon Peak. The letter opener was right over there, on the left border of the desk. I could've opened the letter in a matter of seconds, but it took me fifteen full minutes to open the envelope, and five more to actually read the contents. I was expecting a sheet of paper; instead, I found two of them and a locket at the bottom of the envelope, which explained its weight._

_Funny as it may seem, I hesitated: I didn't know whether to pick up the locket or the letter first. I couldn't make up my mind in any way: I was anxious to see both of them. I decided to flip a coin, heads for the letter, tails for the locket. Heads. I hastily unfolded the letter and began reading._

"_Celestia,_

_I can only hope this letter reaches your hands, and if it does, I can only hope you will take the bother of reading it. I know you're furious at me, I know you think I deserted you, left you behind to pursue my own selfish interests, but please, if you're reading this, I beg you to keep reading, for this is the last time I will do so."_

_What did he mean by "this is the last time"? My heart began beating faster, but I tried not to read any faster, for I wanted to read every word of the letter._

"_Something horrible has happened. The Undead Scourge that has been ravaging the northlands and laid siege to both Lordaeron and Dalaran has come to our front doors. Not only that, but several refugees from different human nations and locales have come to our doors, asking Greymane to open the Wall in order to let them in and escape the Scourge. And as you can expect from someone like our King, he denied the request. The Wall remained closed, and all those people were savagely butchered by the incoming Scourge. Our defenses managed to drive away the threat long enough for them to realize it was unnecessary to invade a kingdom so far away and so isolated from everything, which gave them neither resource or tactical advantage. So they left… but the mutilated bodies of humans and elves alike outside our gates remained. Little by little the corpses rotted away, and I am certain the blood will forever stain the lands surrounding the Wall, perhaps acting as a reminder of what our King had (or rather, hadn't) done."_

_I took a moment to imagine the haunting scene. My fist clenched in anger; I released the grip immediately, since I was crushing the letter. Genn Greymane, that bastard of a King we had… no wonder Jaina didn't even try to talk with him as soon as the third war broke out. The guy was a complete egotistical moron, and I always felt he would be the doom of Gilneas. True, Gilneas was a very strong nation and held its own against several orc raids during the Second War, but we lived in a world with other humans and sentient creatures: as I learnt in a philosophy lesson during my time in the Academy, "to isolate is to cut oneself from the rest of the world, and like everything that does this, given time, it will cease to exist". Needless to say, the teacher was executed a couple of days after preaching that._

_Once again I kept my drifting mind at bay and concentrated on the letter._

"_Civil unrest has been growing. Executions and abductions are a common trade coin these days. Many people are trying to raise in arms against Greymane, but they're amateur at best, and are rapidly crushed by royal knights. Exodus is taking place, with another bunch of people making a profit from selling desperate citizens free passage through the Wall's inner workings and out to the Great Sea. And this is where I come in._

_I've been helping the refugees, smuggling citizens out of Gilneas. It's been an arduous task, involving several dangers and the ever present possibility of me being hung in the noose if I'm caught. But it's the right thing to do, and as of yesterday, it's my duty._

_Enclosed in the envelope you'll find a locket."_

_I sloppily tore the locket apart from the envelope; it was glued to it. It turned out to be a wonderfully designed breast locket: with mixtures of black and gold, the Penitent Sword clearly depicted in a central place alongside our nation's crest, all of this encircled by a shimmering silver braid which sported the words "LIVE BY THE LIGHT, DIE BY THE SWORD / OUR SPIRITS RISE, INTO THE WHITE VOID", the holy mantra of the League of the Greymane Paladins. I gasped at the locket's beauty… it was simply magnificent. There was a small gilded star on the sword's hilt which I couldn't identify with any known symbols._

_So he'd done it. He finally was a Paladin… my anger for his refusal to join me decreased somewhat. There were many words that could be used to explain my particular feeling at that moment, a mixture of pride for my brother, happiness that he'd accomplished his goal, and fear that he was exposing himself to death. Was he helping refugees on the League's orders, or was he going rogue? The latter seemed more plausible. Then a horrible thought struck my mind: he had written this was the last letter he'd write! Desperately wishing it wasn't what I thought it was, I kept on reading._

"_The locket, as you most certainly know, is the insignia of the League of Greymane Paladins, which effectively marks me as member of the group and, by proxy, a Paladin. It was hard, I endured many difficulties and suffered a lot from isolation, true… but it was very worth it. However, I am saddened to see many of my brothers have chosen to follow Greymane's doctrine. Thus, the League was split, and those against the King chose to aid the refugees to escape this prison kingdom._

_But we were fighting a battle which simply could not be won. Greymane's forces pushed us closer and closer to the edge, and even managed to find some deserting paladins. What was done to them cannot be expressed in words._

_Therefore, I fled, Celestia, I fled from Gilneas, and I'm coming to you. To fulfill a promise I made before starting my training. I will travel through the Maelstrom towards Kalimdor and join you in your struggle, hopefully alleviating the enormous charge over your shoulders. I can't wait to see you, sister. This will be the longest journey ever._

_You will receive no more letters from me. Next time you hear from me, it will be in person. Until then, I hope you're alright. I love you very much._

_Varlus"_

_I couldn't help it: I began crying again, fat tears splashing the letter and ruining its paper. I looked away to preserve the letter. He was coming… he was coming! My brother, paladin Varlus, was coming to join me! My mood improved drastically._

_"Incoming!"_

_And not long after that deafening scream, I felt it: a huge explosion shook the battlements of our stronghold, demolishing several walls and killing countless of my troops. Not a moment after, another explosion tore through the ceiling, devastating it and showering me in a pile of wood debris and dust. Warcries and battle sounds enveloped me as I struggled to climb through the wreckage in search of much needed air. I clung to the locket with my teeth, pushing shattered wooden beams and rock blocks away from me. I finally reached the surface of the destruction, taking huge gasps to refill my lungs. Gazing around me, I realized the awful truth._

_"Oh, God…"_

_Wyverns. Raiders. Shamans. Grunts. Spear throwers. Catapults. Our stronghold was being sieged by the largest amount of orcs we had ever seen. Footmen and knights alike fell all around the now reduced to ruins castle. Our Gryphon Riders were quickly decimated by the Horde's new war beasts. Aided by their new allies, the Tauren, the Horde advanced over us, slowly but surely. We were trapped. We were doomed._  
_I had lost my staff in the destruction, so all I could do was to rush down to one of the last standing defense squad (complete with a siege tank and four mortar teams) and give as much assistance as I could. As I slid down the remains of the castle, I thought it a good idea to wear Varlus' locket in my chest… for if I was on the road to death as I surely was, I wanted him to be with me, at least in spirit. I arrived at my destination, an improvised barricade guarding one of the town's main roads, where I found Andriel and several other soldiers trying to hold off the beasts._

_"It's a lost battle, my love" I said, half apologizing, half saddened. "We must retreat."_

_Andriel shook his head while he healed the dwarven riflemen shooting down countless grunts and trolls._

_"Where to, Celestia? The caverns? We have no retreat, dear, and you know it. This is our final stand."_

_I gazed at him, and he gazed back, and in our eyes we felt the calmness before death. Then a gigantic kodo beast squished almost half of our squad, leaving only two footmen and us to confront the beast. The footmen charged valiantly while Andriel casted some protective spells over them, while I hit the beast as hard as I could with my spells. However, without my staff my magic was drastically weaker and didn't even stun the beast, which proceeded to chew down and then swallow the two unlucky footmen. Horrified by this bloody visage, Andriel failed to detect a nearby axethrower, who aimed one of his razor-sharp weapons at him. I tried to block the projectile with a spell, but it failed due to my lack of power. It him him squarely in the forehead and sank with a repulsive thud, spraying blood everywhere._

_"No!" I screamed, and ran to his falling body. By the time he was in my arms while I kneeled on the ground, he was completely dead, his limps flailing lifelessly over his sides, his eyes fixed upon nowhere._

_"Not you…" I whispered over my tears. "You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve me. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry… So sorry…"_

_A stomping which shook the ground interrupted my mourning. Looking at the kodo beast in the eye, I lost my fear. Nothing mattered anymore. But I wouldn't die running away. I felt sorry for Varlus, sorry that our last words were a heated argument, sorry that I would never see him again. The kodo roared and began charging at me with surprising speed._

_I screamed in anger and ran towards the beast to attack it with a potent spell, so potent I knew it would kill me as well. Blood and tears left a trail behind me as I jumped towards the gargantuan animal._

_I breathed deep one last time, and detonated the spell._

"He's ready. Release him."

The lights seemed to dim, faster and faster, until everything was black. I felt as if dead, but then I heard a soft rattling on the distance, and a chilling scream. I opened my eyes painfully, only to find the Dark Lady, Sylvanas Windrunner, leader of the Forsaken, was staring directly at me, only inches from me, most of her figure hidden from her thanks to the dark cloak she wore. I could smell her putrid perfume, I could see my scared and badly beaten face reflected on the Dark Lady's white eyes. I also noticed I was completely naked, though I couldn't have cared less at that time.

"Leave us" she said, waving her left hand. The various cultists left the room and locked the iron door behind them. I glanced around the room: it was most certainly a torture room of sorts. I tried to speak…

"Where's Arcanna?" I asked, trembling with cold.

"Don't worry about her right now" answered Sylvanas. "What matters is you, Varlus Jenneson."

Then she kissed me.


	5. Chapter 5: The Covenant

I've always been alone

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**The Covenant**

I opened my eyes towards a grand hall. It was painfully obvious that I was a prisoner in the Undercity: countless tapestries depicting skulls, mutilated bodies and smashed ballroom masks (apparently, the latter were the Forsaken's coat of arms, given that it was emblazoned on the shoulder pads of what I thought were Sylvanas' lieutenants) adorned the obsidian walls of the dark fortress. The room was lit by black candles sat on what looked like fossilized spiders hanging from the ceiling. The air was cold as steel, with a disgusting taste of both metal and rotten flesh penetrating my nostrils. The room's temperature must have been below freezing point, and as a result I was shivering terribly, my breath turning into a white-ish mist moments after leaving my bluish mouth. Bare-chested and with nothing to protect my feet, I was falling deeper and deeper into hypothermia. The numerous cuts and wounds in my chest had turned into a deep purple, and my flesh itself was beginning to look pale and frozen. I painfully raised my head and gazed to the cloaked necromancers in front of me.

There were five of them, flanked by heavily armored abominations and what seemed to be a huge army of banshees. These banshees were chanting quietly, almost humming, in what I thought it was elven language. Then I deduced it actually made sense, because they were probably slain High Elves, all fallen before Arthas' blade. The song was both beautiful and haunting, sending even more violent shivers down my spine. To my ears, it was like a gentle caress of evil, of death. It was like Death's lips whispered next to me: "I am waiting…"

As for the necromancers, I couldn't see their faces. The dark blue robe covered most of their physique, their putrid hands holding their skull-ended staves. They looked feeble, weak, easily breakable. A good kick to the jaw or slash to the chest was probably enough to send them back to the Hell they had come from. Of course, I was on their full grasp and unable to do anything except shiver, blink, and breathe heavily, with the occasional coughing and wheezing. Yet my mind managed to entertain those vague fantasies, since they were perhaps the only thing keeping me alive and conscious.

Minutes passed. Nothing was moving except the bluish light coming out from the ceiling's candles. Even the banshees had fallen into silence. Slowly but surely, I began to fall into anxiety. What were they waiting for? Why hadn't they killed me already? And more importantly…

"Where… is she?" I asked in a weak voice.

My voice could have been a whisper, but it echoed horribly in the room. Nobody answered. For a while I seriously considered they were deaf… but then the tight circle of necromancers opened, and in the middle stood the Dark Lady, the leader of the Forsaken, the Fallen Ranger.

"Sylvanas…" was all I could manage to say. I limped down and almost fell in my face; the two skeletons next to me grasped my arms and stood me upright again.

For an undead, she was positively elegant. Scantily clad in a reinforced black leather light armor, consisting of two set pieces covering her feminine attributes, a regal cloak dropping from her shoulders almost to the floor, her long bow at the ready in her right hand and the golden-framed quiver visible on her back, she looked more like a night elf that had not seen the sun for a very long time rather than an undead queen. While subtle, the signs of undeath were visible in the unnatural way her eyes shone (pearly white, lacking all vestiges of life) and the almost marble color of her skin (my eyes were tricking me at this point, since it looked more like a mixture of blue and purple depending on how the light illuminated her features. She was wearing a dark blue pendant which I identified as elven in origin. I deduced it probably belonged to her, when she was alive.

Her silver boots echoed in the ceramic tiles of the room. "Your resistance to cold is feeble and pathetic, and that's from an optimistic point of view."

I forced a smile. "Blame it on the lack of clothes, milady."

Sylvanas did not smile back. "Your will, however, is an entirely different manner. Wounded and on the verge of death as you are, you still keep the sense of sarcasm intact." She made a pause. "You're stronger than you think, paladin."

There was nothing to be said from that statement. I didn't agree, for I was a prisoner who could not escape against admittedly overwhelming odds. How was I "stronger than I thought"? And to top it all, I wasn't able to save Arcanna… no, the truth was that I believed myself to be a fiasco, a failure. Was she alive? Something told me she was… but could I believe Sylvanas' words?

"I see your concern, as is to be expected from a paladin, is not focused in yourself" continued Sylvanas, now circling around me in a casual way, never looking at me in the eye. "Your thoughts drift to the night elf… Arcanna, you say she's called?"

"Is she… alright?" I inquired.

Sylvanas smiled. "She's alive, though by no means "alright". I don't know if you realized, paladin, but she's a rather… peculiar… huntress. You have noticed this, paladin," she added as she stood in front of me once again, staring at me at last, "haven't you?"

I didn't reply, which I hoped Sylvanas would take as a yes. Naturally, she did.

"We've been torturing her for hours. Now, before you even begin to scream "don't touch her, torture me", allow me to tell you that the torture is completely ineffective in her case. She seems to have a very advance healing factor. Every time one of my ghouls whipped her, the wound closed up instantly. I even had an abomination crack her entire right arm under its feet, and it mended itself in a matter of minutes. It was painful for her, naturally, but it proved to be inefficient at extracting whatever information lies below that beautiful hair of hers, and as such, I was forced to… how can I say it?" she jested, one finger to her chin in a gesture of mock wondering, "Change my methods, so to speak."

"What did you do to her?" I asked, my temper rising by the minute and giving me much needed heat.

"Isolation. If we can't torture her body, we'll torture her mind, and I'm not speaking about the mind breaching routine my sorcerers put you through hours ago, paladin. I mean total isolation. Nobody speaks to her, looks at her, touches her. She's kept on a cell that is always dark, always silent, always cold. In a sense, she's on a "tomb" of sorts, where nothing can disturb her." She brushed off some flickers of dark hair from her face. "It is harrowing, paladin. She will break in a matter of days."

My rising temper vanished in an instant. I want silent again, gazing at the cold marble floor again. The pain that knowledge caused me was far greater than my will to keep arguing with Sylvanas. She was clearly in command of the situation and was not going to let neither Arcanna nor me go away. There was only one thing left to know.

"What do you want from us?"

Sylvanas smiled again, apparently pleased I finally asked what she wanted me to.

"Worry no more for the huntress, paladin. There is a much greater issue at hand." Sylvanas made a signal to the group of necromancers, who broke ranks and began casting some dark spell. It began shimmering in a purple light amidst the darkness of the room. "Remember the warlock you and your companion murdered? That was no mere warlock. He is a very important member of a dark covenant of beings that are slowly gaining ground and strength to launch a massive invasion upon Azeroth. You're probably thinking about the Burning Legion: you're wrong. This covenant sent the Legion, led by the Demonlords Kil'Jaeden and Archimonde, to "test" Azeroth, and also to weaken it. But, as you well know, the Legion failed. Not only did they fail to conquer this land, but they also failed at weakening whatever denizens inhabited it. Now, Azeroth is perhaps more prepared than ever to resist the incoming siege of darkness."

I seized the moment, not believing Sylvanas' words. "Prepared? Most of humankind has been either destroyed or consumed by the Undead. The World Tree was blown to pieces. Durotar is falling in disgrace and is in a struggle against Theramore. This world is NOT prepared for the cataclysm you seem to imply, Sylvanas."

"You forget about the Lich King, paladin. You forget about all those dreadlords still roaming about. You forget about the blood elves and trolls and us, the Forsaken. Azeroth is much better armed against them than most people cares to realize" said Sylvanas.

"You're telling me that you will join forces with the humans, for example, if this threat falls upon the world?" I asked, almost jokingly. The possibility was negligible.

However, Sylvanas looked away, a distant remorse in her eyes. "If need be… yes, we will."

I was astounded. Sylvanas Windrunner, the Dark Lady of the Forsaken Undead, was suggesting that if need be she would ally herself with the humans, whose kingdom she gave the coup de grace. "The humans will never accept you. Chances are you'll be attacked on sight by them."

"Not all humans are as near-sighted as you say, paladin" she retorted mournfully, as if speaking of a recently departed loved one. "There are some who listen before acting… and some who realize my revenge is not on them. Not anymore. Their kingdom is mine already, and Lordaeron no longer exists. They should blame Arthas for that, not me."

"You gave the already dying kingdom the final blow" I rebutted angrily. "You killed Garithos and all of his men, and not only that, devastated what was left of humanity and turned this green fields into the Plaguelands!"

"We needed a place to live!" shouted back Sylvanas. "We were no longer the slaves of the Lich King, and with this terrible curse searing through our existence, we only tried to make the best of our suffering! Tell me, paladin, do you really think Garithos' rule would have improved the quality of human life?! He agreed with no hesitation to my offer of alliance to bring down Detheroc and his brethren!"

"Yet you still annihilated countless humans, Sylvanas! People will not care if you were forced to do it or not, even less about the reasons why you did it! You know how humans are, and if you don't, take the example of my homeland, who left humans to die at the hands of the Scourge instead of opening a damn gate!"

Sylvanas went silent, her eyes still shining with anger… or were they tears? Perhaps she felt remorse over her actions. It would've been extremely out of character… but it was a possibility. I, for one, had forgotten about the cold or my wounds, instead focusing my energies on winning this admittedly pointless argument.

"You're a human, paladin. And yet I don't sense any of that zealotry you mention in you" said Sylvanas after a while.

"I don't. Then again, I'm not a "normal" human. I'm from Gilneas… I haven't lived through the Third War at all. I do know about it because of accounts from different places, putting my life at the risk in order to get news from outside the Greymane Wall. That's why I eventually left."

Now it was Sylvanas who seemed astounded. "You are an example of the humans that are not near sighted, paladin. I… may have misjudged you. What's your name?"

"Varlus. Of the Jenneson family."

"Is that a family of renown in your homeland?" she asked.

"Not really, no."

Sylvanas looked away for a second. I guessed she had a momentary remembrance of her own homeland, and how they were butchered by Arthas' legions. It only lasted a moment, since she stood upright again and walked away decisively.

"Back to business, Varlus. This covenant is coming; there is no doubt about it. The warlock you believe you killed was part of one of the circles of it, comprised of many renowned magicians and sorcerers from all imaginable planes and realms. Their powers are overwhelming… make no mistake: Azeroth will be crushed."

I remembered the warlock's haunting words: _"Put it this way… the Burning Legion was our lapdog."_ It fitted with what Sylvanas was saying… I felt despair at that moment. She was right… she wasn't actually inventing everything. She _was_ right.

"How bad can it be?" I asked. "The Burning Legion was supposed to be apocalyptical… and Azeroth survived."

Sylvanas dismissed my comment with her hand. "Azeroth survived because of the alliance of races. Humans, orcs and night elves joined under a single banner against the Legion. But this threat will not be contained by three races only. All races on Azeroth must join efforts in order to outlive the incoming invasion."

"All?"

"All" repeated Sylvanas solemnly. "Humans, orcs, night elves, blood elves, naga, dwarves, gnomes, trolls, tauren… even the undead."

"You're asking for the impossible, Sylvanas."

"Difficult, perhaps. Not impossible. Who would have thought the humans and the orcs would ally against a common foe before the Third War started? Nobody. The greatest alliances, Varlus, are often the most unlikely."

"Sylvanas, _what is the threat?_" I asked impatiently. "What is coming? You haven't answered this question yet, and I'm growing tired of politics. Don't expect me to believe you without proof."

Sylvanas smiled yet again, turned away from me and faced the circle of necromancers behind her, on the dais.

"Are you finished?" she inquired.

"Yes, milady" answered the necromancers.

"Then open it, and show our guest what is left of that world."

The purple ball of energy above us began to change color… first to a bright green, then blue, red, white, black, orange, and finally it became transparent, and an image of another reality projected upon it. Then I realized the ball of light was actually a gate, a portal of sorts, looking onto another place. Another world, as Sylvanas put it.

The only thing I could see was a desert. Two suns shone brightly upon it. The only features of that wasteland were dunes… massive dunes. No ruins, no signs of battle. No nothing. Only a fierce wind blowing sand around.

Sylvanas noticed my lack of understanding. "Look harder, Varlus. Is it sand?"

My captors released me and threw a dank cloak over my body. Warmth began to course through my body, as if those two suns at the other side of the portal were hitting me as well. I walked closer to it, trying to see something unseen, something hidden… I supposed I was looking for signs of battle, of destruction, but I failed to see anything of significance.

"Focus on the gusts of wind, Varlus."

I did so. I noticed things flying along with the wind… sand grains, probably. Then I focused harder. Sand grains were not _that_ big… and they also seemed to be slightly misshapen. Another thing I noticed was that the sand was way too white to be sand… and it was shimmering… as if reflecting the sunlight.

"Glass?" I guessed.

Sylvanas shook her head. "Something else."

I focused on the scene again, and the wind cleared a part of the sand, and underneath it was a completely clean but utterly deformed skull. I gasped… and realized what the "sand" was.

"Bones!"

"Bones" repeated Sylvanas. "Not sand. Bones. Countless miles of bones. In fact, the whole planet has been turned to a wasteland of bones. How many dead? Millions of millions. This was a big world… until the Conclave came. Then… the world died. Simple as that. We don't know the name of this world. We don't know what denizens inhabited it. What we do know is that this world was subject to the wrath of the Conclave, and if we don't take appropriate measures, Azeroth will suffer the same fate."

I was speechless. The devastation was total. Absolute. No life was spared. This… Conclave had killed a world. Entirely. It was unfathomable. Unbelievable. Impossible. What horrible powers and machines of destruction could cause such a vile annihilation? And why? Was it the sake of conquest alone? Had that world offended this Conclave in some way?

Then my mind was attacked by a sudden hallucination… flying ships, descending into Stormwind Citadel… ethereal warriors wielding all kinds of weapons and powers destroying everything in their path… humans, orcs, undead, night elves dying before them, being apparently vaporized under their weapons and the skeletons that remained being consumed and crushed by their gargantuan war beasts… and Arcanna's body as well, violently bleeding under a white sword… and the hand that guided that sword… it was me! But I was different… my eyes shone a pearly white… and from my back a six ethereal tentacles shot outwards, in a wing shape… my face was half concealed, but I was sure it was me... and I had killed her… myself, too…

The next thing I knew was that Sylvanas was looking at me from above, and I was shivering, lying face up on the floor.

"They are not a joke, Varlus." She extended her arm to help me rise. "Now come. There is something I must ask of you."

Somehow, all her rants and digressions erased my fear of her. I was compelled to follow.


	6. Chapter 6: Relics Of Azeroth

I've always been alone

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Relics Of Azeroth**

I followed Sylvanas' lead through the Undercity with shaky steps, still drugged and weak from the torture I endured. Even in this convalescent state, I still was able to register my surroundings, and while ghastly and disturbing, they had a certain majestic and regal feeling about them. Darkness seemed to engulf the whole citadel, briefly pierced by shades of blue, purple, and green. It was hard to see in the gloom, though Sylvanas and her minions were most certainly used to it, having apparently no trouble navigating the imposing and cold corridors. I failed to understand how could anyone call that place "home", for it had all the appearance of a gigantic crypt; yet I rationalized this was probably the intention, and I grimly realized someone could say the exact same thing about my own homeland.

I couldn't suppress a smirk. The irony of the situation had numbed all sense of logic from my brain; I was a paladin, yet I was walking through the most unholy place ever conceived, and not only that, but I was being led by the Dark Lady of the Forsaken Undead to join her in some hidden and epic quest to stop an impending yet invisible doom upon the world. I wonder what my teachers and masters would have thought of my position: certainly they would have branded me a heretic, a fallen, maybe even a death knight in training. Still, no matter how grim or strange the situation became, my mind was clear and focused on my objective: if I was to rescue Arcanna and continue on my way, I was to help the Dark Lady in any way I could. _Help_, not _join_. There was a difference. I fully realized that difference was a thin line, easily crossed… but I have been tempted by the dark side before, and knew what had to be done.

Even as I pondered this, my mind was already doubting itself. Sylvanas was speaking of impossible feats, of extremely improbable facts and actions. Was I capable enough to do her will? And what of Arcanna? I had no guarantee Sylvanas would release the huntress when I was done. Come to think of it, I wasn't even sure she was alive at all. I couldn't explain it at the moment, but I felt some kind of obsession for the night elf. Like a bond between us. For a moment my mind wildly imagined her languishing in a dark cell, thinking about me and wondering whether I was alright. That thought filled me with fear and sadness, and also a desire to overpower my captor and fight my way through the fortress to rescue her. Imagination can be a dangerous thing. I smirked again.

My tour went on. Sylvanas was silent, apparently intent on reaching whatever her destination was as soon as possible. We passed past various meeting chambers, dark corridors filled with all kinds of horrors, several torture grounds whose denizens were painful to see (my heart jolted at the thought of Arcanna being submitted to those devices) and, after descending even more through some stairs, we finally reached the Dark Lady's inner chamber.

My first thought was that it was austere. There were hardly any rare trinkets or dangerous treasures; only a pinewood desk, a bit rough at the sides and with no overly distinguishing features. Her chair was simple, as were the walls, blank and featureless, only jagged stones protruding from it, simple and deadly. Sylvanas pointed me towards a nearly broken ottoman, then sat down on her own chair, facing me blankly. It was then, trying to avoid her gaze, that I noticed several parchments and papers on the desk: maps, notes, memos, incantations, journals. Lying beneath the mesmerizing stack of data lied what I thought was a battle plan, a strategy for some kind of massive battle.

"Well then, Varlus" started Sylvanas with a silky voice, "the facts have been stated. Doom is coming. Unless we move fast, we will be destroyed." She paused for a second to observe my reaction. Having found none, she continued. "Besides the alliance between all races of this world, it is clear we will need a weapon, some kind of power that will aid us repel the attack of such a terrible invader. We will need to revive the magic of old, lost times… power much more powerful than any other. Legends of Azeroth."

"Relics?" I asked.

"Exactly, Varlus." Sylvanas stood up and began circling the desk. "Relics of old heroes, of mortals whose valor and power was beyond measure, beyond comprehension. Whose names made their enemies quake in pure terror. Whose presence in a battlefield guaranteed a victory for their armies. Men and women who are still venerated to this day, achieving almost godlike status. Though their spirits may already be circling the Twisting Nether, whether in peace or punishment, their imprint remains upon this world… upon their possessions."

The Dark Lady pushed some papers aside, revealing a large parchment in which I saw four distinctive items drawn in: a sword, a cloak, a breastplate and a pendant. They were pretty well drawn, eliminating the possibility that any of the Forsaken had drawn them. The lines and traces looked elven in nature, precise and strong. This was clearly the parchment of a master, or a very important person. I also noticed each item was surrounded by countless footnotes, such as "DANGEROUS", "NOT FOUND?", "PROPERTIES UNKNOWN", "POSSIBLY IN KALIMDOR" and many others. I began to have a faint idea of what Sylvanas was going to ask of me.

"The Sword of Anduin Lothar" she said, pointing at the drawn sword. "Patriarch of Azeroth. Long time leader of the Human Alliance until his demise at the hands of the Warchief Orgrim Doomhammer. He was the one responsible for the survival of the Nation of Azeroth after King Llane and the original Stormwind had fallen, carrying the badly hurt people towards the shores of Lordaeron. His was the hand that slayed the prophet, Medivh. His spirit lives on, in his sword. You must locate it."

A heavy silence followed her sentence.

"No idea where to start" I shrugged, completely honest.

"Fortunately, we have been doing research and came up with a positive lead" replied Sylvanas. "Our spies report the sword's last location to be Blackrock Spire, the Old Horde's former stronghold, now inhabited by the last remnants of such order still clinging to their ancient ways. They call themselves the Dark Horde. It would appear they are lead by an ancient Horde leader… Rend Blackhand. A founder of the now extinct Black Tooth Grin Clan of the Old Horde. While the Dark Horde's forces are formidable and they are also allied with the son of the legendary Black Dragon, Nefarian, this assault on their stronghold will serve two goals: to recover the Sword of Lothar, and to interrogate Rend about the whereabouts of his father's armor."

"Blackhand's armor?" I inquired.

"So you know his name" said Sylvanas, raising an eyebrow. "Former Warchief of the Horde at the time of the First War, Blackhand led the bloodiest assault ever recorded on Horde history. Though this eventually cost him his position and also his life at the hands of the treacherous Orgrim Doomhammer, his exploits are deeply venerated in Orcish lore, and firmly embraced by those orcs who lust for their demonic way of life, now apparently lost to them. The fury, anger, and hate this great warrior experienced on the day Stormwind fell lives on through his armor, his only remaining relic. As I mentioned, its final resting place is unknown to us; we believe it to be somewhere in the Searing Gorge area, but this is simple speculation. We have no proof. Rend knows, so stay your blade from the kill until this information is given to you."

Sylvanas spoke with a calm yet firm tone, stating the information in a cold, businesslike manner. I didn't expect anything else from her, but her facts simply were too far-fetched to believe. I was no magic master, granted, but how could an old sword and a far older armor be of any relevance or importance against the massive evil that seemed to be coming to Azeroth? I had heard and seen objects possessing great amounts of magic, but they were almost always coveted treasures, heavily protected by all kinds of forces. This did not sound like it. Before I could voice my doubts, however, Sylvanas pointed towards the third drawing on the parchment. It was a cloak. The drawing pictured it as very regal in appearance, and contrary to all the other depictions, this one had only one side note: "OUTLAND?"

"The next item is not as legendary as the others, yet holds perhaps the greatest emotional and magical value of them all" spoke Sylvanas. "This is the cloak of the night elf, Maiev Shadowsong." Brief silence. That name did not ring any bell at all; my knowledge of night elves was very limited. "Crowned by her sisters as Warden, a band of night elves sword to uphold justice swiftly and without mercy, she was perhaps the greatest upholder of law, honor, and sacrifice her kind had seen. Yet she was still mortal, and her personality together with her inner doubts and fears led to her ultimate doom."

Another brief pause. None of Sylvanas' words made any sense to me, and she must had noted that in my blank stare, because she added matter-of-factly, "Maiev was the Warden charged with the overseeing of the long standing night elf prisoner, Illidan Stormrage."

Something clicked in my head. "I heard something about this. Isn't he the one who tried to destroy Northrend about six years ago? I thought he was destroyed or something."

"Half right, half wrong" replied Sylvanas, her white eyes fixed on mine again. "Illidan led a great hand in the defeat of Archimonde and the Burning Legion, but at a terrible price: his own thirst for magic of any kind, insatiable ego and unyielding resolution led him to tamper with a powerful demonic artifact known as the Skull of Gul'dan, giving him enough power to overcome the fel army of the dreadlord Tichondrius, but transforming the Demon Hunter into a more primal yet immensely powerful form… Ironic, that a Demon Hunter has to spend the rest of his life, and practically eternity, as a demon."

Sylvanas made the longest pause ever, perhaps giving me a minute to contemplate over her ramblings. My mind was focused both on Arcanna's welfare and the enormity of the mission the Dark Lady was assigning me to, so I could only say, "One cannot play with fire without knowing they might get burnt."

Sylvanas nodded. "Quite. So we go back to the Warden. As you well know, Varlus, justice often carries zealotry and fanatism. One needs only look upon those hapless humans of the Scarlet Crusade to verify that. Maiev and her sisters were not that narrow-minded, but Illidan's release from his ten-thousand prison was simply something she could not accept. Furious at the Priestess of the Moon, Tyrande Whisperwind, and her consort, the Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage, for releasing her most precious prisoner, the Warden and her cadre relentlessly pursued Illidan across the lands of Kalimdor. Coming close several times, Illidan finally sat free the relentless Naga upon the world, overwhelming the Warden's fellowship before fleeing to the Eastern Kingdoms. Maiev had no choice but to seek help from those she hated, and in the end, as the Archdruid allowed Illidan to escape to safety, Maiev lost her mind and followed him through the portal, into the uncharted regions of the now destroyed Draenor, homeland of the orcs. Or, as it is known now, Outland."

"Wait a minute" I interrupted, my interest picked again. "Draenor was supposed to have been destroyed to ashes following Khadgar's expedition."

Sylvanas sat again, looking exasperated for the first time, as if she wanted this lengthy explanation to end quickly. "In a way. Draenor was razed beyond recognition, thanks to Ner'zhul's unrestrained use of portals. Although the land was ravaged in the cataclysm, some was left standing, albeit horribly changed from what it used to be. It now barely holds itself together in the Twisting Nether, its skies burning with everlasting flames of fury. It was this place that Illidan, after a long bloody campaign, claimed for his people, naga and blood elves, giving himself the tile of Lord of Outland. The Warden, having followed him there, is presumed to be deceased by Illidan's wrath."

A tingle of fear ran through my body. "You want me to go there and search for her body?" I asked, hoping the answer was no.

To my relief, Sylvanas shook her head slightly. "All we want from her is her Cloak. It was left behind when she travelled to Outland, and it still pulsates with the energy of justice and revenge. As for its location, we know it already: the Relics' Vault inside the Temple of the Moon at Darnassus, the capital of the night elves' kingdom. Retrieving it from there, however, is another story entirely. Though night elves are a part of the Alliance now, and should welcome a human such as yourself in their hovel, they will most surely forbid your entrance to their most sacred sanctum."

"So you want me to steal from the night elves under their nose. I can't stay it sounds clever" I remarked grimly.

"I did not say it was going to be easy, Varlus. But there is always a way. Now," she said, pointing at the last drawing, "this leaves us to the last Relic, one we already have. The Pendant of Alleria Windrunner."

"Alleria?" I wondered, bewildered. "You don't mean—"

"Yes" said Sylvanas cutting me off sharply. "My former sister. I warn you, paladin" she added, her gaze now filled with rage (or was it despair?) and pointing two fingers at my face, "I will not tolerate any leakage as far as this particular fact goes. If you do so, the huntress will be killed. Not only that, she will also be turned into one of us."

Silence. "You miss your sister, don't you?" I asked, genuinely feeling sorry for her. A second later I wished I had kept my mouth shut, for Sylvanas got up lightning fast and punched me squarely in my face, throwing me backwards and off my chair. As I wiped my bloodstained nose and rose back to my feet, I saw the Dark Lady was panting. "Never… _never_ say that again, paladin" she hissed, "or you and your night elf bitch will suffer the full wrath of the Forsaken. You have been warned. Now sit down!" she indicated, quickly regaining her composure as I uprighted the chair and sat back on it.

"As I said, Varlus" she continued as if nothing had happened, "we have already reclaimed the pendant. But it is not complete; the chain, made from the finest elven gold, is missing, still hidden somewhere deep within the rebuilt kingdom of Quel'thalas." I noticed the chain holding the blue pendant to her neck was black and made of what was probably common rope, not at all golden. "Chances are, the blood elves have found this Relic and keep it same somewhere within their capitol, Silvermoon."

"You are allied with the blood elves" I retorted quickly. "I heard the rumors. Why don't you just ask them for it? If it belongs to Alleria, they surely won't deny."

"We are as allied with them as I am allied to you" replied Sylvanas, dismissing the idea. "We don't care about the Horde, or the Alliance for that matter. We only care about two things, and you are part of one of them. You can clearly guess what the other matter is."

"Speaking of that" I began, reaching the point I wanted to discuss, "why should I help you? I am a human. You are the leader of the Forsaken. How do I know this is not some dark plot planning to use me for your sinister ends?"

For once, Sylvanas smiled. "Have I not shown you enough evidence that the threat that looms above us is real? I have confided things with you I have never told even my most trusted lieutenants about. I do not care for this world's petty politics; I care about survival."

"Precisely" I pointed out. "You have used similar tactics of manipulation in the past."

"Cunning" taunted Sylvanas. "Let me put it this way, Varlus: do you care for the life of the huntress? Do you wish to keep her away from harm?" I kept my silence; Sylvanas kept her smile. "Then you will do as I ordered, because if you don't, her life will be over, and she will join my army of the dead. You choose, paladin."

Silence settled yet again as I sank deep in my thoughts. The obvious question came up: "How do I know she's still alive?"

"I told you before, Varlus. The night elf is more than just a huntress. Much more. These are details you do not need to know at the moment, so do not ask about them. Suffice to say that she is our insurance. Do as I ask, follow my command, and not only we will be better prepared for the coming of the Conclave, but you will preserve her life as well."

"I want to see her" I demanded at once. If she needed insurance, well, I needed some as well.

"Fine" she replied calmly, then stood up. I followed suit, but Sylvanas shoved me back into seating. "You will wait here. I will bring her to you." Then she exited her room, closing the door behind her. I heard the locks trapping me in. Now my mind was free to wonder.

Four relics. Sword. Armor. Cloak. Pendant (or rather, chain). Was it possible, as Sylvanas suggested, that these old items possessed magic yet unseen? It didn't seem likely… then again, my knowledge of magic outside my paladin skills was somewhat limited. And what about that threat? The Dark Lady's story made sense, but it still was difficult to swallow. One could argue that if she only cared for survival, then her best course of action would be to seize the items by force. She certainly had enough resources to support such a campaign from what little I had seen and knew. However, the only flaw was closely tied to her tale: a violent takeover of these Relics would leave Azeroth weaker against the invasion, and it was implied the Forsaken alone would never survive it. Logic implored me not to trust her… but somewhere inside me another voice whispered that she wasn't lying, that for once, she was telling the truth. And in either case… I had to play along: I found that my feelings and emotions were attached to the night elf as they have never been with another woman, save perhaps my deceased sister. If Arcanna was alive (a fact I was about to confirm in a matter of minutes) then I had no other choice than to play along.

Minutes passed. I was beginning to grow restless and feel Sylvanas' office as my own prison, when the door unlocked again and through it came the Dark Lady, expressionless. Behind her came two skeleton swordsmen, carrying (my heart skipped a beat) an unconscious Arcanna, face down. I stood up immediately and walked up to her.

"Back off" grunted a skeleton, holding his blade between me and the huntress. The image was sad. Her hair was dirtied and meek, no longer sporting that gallant shine that made it so gorgeous. Blood spatters, gushes, and wounds covered her physique, showing clear signs of torture. Sylvanas walked forward and took my hand, placing my index and middle fingers against Arcanna's neck; though faint, there was definitely a pulse there. She was alive… badly beaten, brutally savaged, but alive. Sylvanas had not lied.

"Content?" sneered Sylvanas. "I am afraid she will not be able to talk to you, exhausted as she is. Proud as a true night elf, resisting torture instead of telling us what we need to know. Take her back to her cell" she ordered, waving her hand as she walked round her desk again. I turned towards her.

"Fine" I accepted. "I think I'm making a tragic mistake here, but fine. I can't let her die, or be turned to undeath. I will do your bidding… for now."

"Excellent" said Sylvanas, smiling again. "Now, I'd like to introduce someone—"

I saw her coming, and would have none of it. "I don't need any help" I said, turning away and heading to the door, where I was stopped by an icy hand that stopped my advance.

"Going somewhere, paladin?" the woman whose hand belonged to asked, staring me directly and sporting a somewhat evil grin.

"Varlus" said Sylvanas from behind, "meet Lady Jastane the Lamenter. The first of my death knights. She will accompany you on your quest."

The death knight's eyes fixated upon mine, still grinning.


	7. Intermission: Whispers In The Wind 1

INTERMISSION

**INTERMISSION**

**Whispers In The Wind (1)**

Dear Arcanna:

I've never been one to write letters, or to write anything for that matter. You'd think I'd have some degree of culture and aptitude for it, but while I devour books, scrolls and everything bearing letters that crosses my eyes, the quill and I have been antagonists ever since I gained use of reason.

That doesn't mean, in times like these, that I am unable to write from my heart, expressing exactly what I want to.

My moment is near. I'm sure you realize by now things have become very complicated. My last confrontation has left me weak and powerless, but I still have Her to guide me. It's funny, but remember when I said I didn't believe? Well, I do now, my dear, more than you can possibly imagine.

But I'm getting ahead of my story, and I wish to give this obscenely long letter some kind of chronology. I have lots to tell you about, my dear… I've been from one point of this world to the other, experienced countless penalties, untold challenges. I only pray you can believe me, and lament the fact that I can only show you what I've been up to by means of a miserable roll of parchment.

I trust by now you are already aware of the fact that I saw you while in the Forsaken's custody. Your state was very poor: you were ravaged, hurt, diseased. Reduced to a shadow of what you once were. Still, to my eyes and even as a shadow, you shone like the purest light over my heart. It is the power of love that granted me enough strength to carry on with the Dark Lady's scheme, even though I had the certainty it would leave me to my doom. I was even more surprised I was joined by a death knight, Jastane the Lamenter, the first of the Dark Lady's elite guard. At first I believed her to be a kind of "insurance" sent by Sylvanas to check that I did not stray from the path she had laid. How very wrong I was.

But allow me to tell you about this death knight first. Jastane was clearly a high elf in life: even through the scars and open sores one can still see traces of her heritage. The blackness of her hair hints a living blonde color. As for the rest of her features, they're heavily concealed within her obsidian armor. She stands a few inches shorter than me, which surprised me since elves are generally taller than humans. Later, she'd reveal the reason for this to be the violent severing of part of her legs, some parts later re-implanted via magical means to allow her usage of what was left of them. Her eyes, unlike Sylvanas, still retain their original form, though what was once a brilliant blue was now a dark, lifeless purple. Completing this corrupted visage were her lips, always black as night, her amazingly sharp fingernails following suit, and of course the runeblade she carried wherever she went. In a distinctive difference from traditional, Scourge led death knights, she not only carries the iconic weapon (carved with magical runes I later found out to be elven in nature, although corrupted), but is also extremely trained in the use of the bow, presumably trained by the Dark Lady herself. As a result, she switched weapons and tactics in combat with amazing versatility, seemingly being able to attack with two weapons at the same time.

Jastane's title was "the Lamenter". Initial deductions led me to believe this was referred to the massacre that befell upon the high elves, I later found out it had a much deeper and tragic meaning: her family did not fall because of Arthas' mighty hammer upon the Realm Eternal, but rather by herself. The plague had corrupted them all, months after the Scourge ended its business in Silvermoon, and feeling the itch of the irreversible disease upon her and seeing the same signs upon her kin, she chose the cold path of sacrifice: she ended all their lives, one by one, to prevent them from the turning. Her mind shattered beyond all recovery, she languished there, amongst the bodies of her family, festering upon her curse with her sanity slipping away each passing minute. She didn't care for anything, she just begged for death but for some reason (perhaps the plague's demonic will) could not drive her sword into herself. Then one day she stood up and travelled, south into the recently created Plaguelands, and her destiny was written when she came across a group of banshees. She was promptly brainwashed on the stop and taken to Sylvanas, who kept her in hiding while training her. The Dark Lady's agents also managed to forge a weapon, and within four short months, the first of the Forsaken Knights was ready. Yet she was still hidden, kept as a secret weapon, perhaps even saving her for the quest I was charged with. But I realize this is a stretched speculation, one not likely to be true, given what I've seen from the Dark Lady.

And believe me when I said I've seen quite a lot from her. Not only the obvious traits, such as ruthlessness, fits of rage, and overall violence, but also an amazing sense of intelligence, manipulation, deceit and an astonishing knack for strategy and tactics. I've taken part in many of her schemes and plans, and they were all flawless, without any weaknesses worthy of being mentioned. I now see how she was able to conquer the ravaged lands of Lordaeron and snatch Arthas' vacant throne from the hands of the Nathrezim. As the Banshee Queen, she is feared and respected. Other races avoid involvement or even contact with Sylvanas' minions. But she broods in the catacombs of the Undercity, scheming, planning, thinking. Thanks to her, the Tirisfal Glades were warped into a haven for the Forsaken, with strange beasts lurking the countryside, a persistent, chilling wind soaring gently over the dead-looking mossy hills. Few plants survived the scourging of the land, and those that did slowly mutated into poisonous, harrowing parodies of what they once were. Days are dark and gloomy, and nights are oppressive and unfathomable. An eerie kind of mist seems to envelop the land in and around the Undercity, swallowing it all into cold silence.

Yet this time, the Dark Lady's intent was positively tragic: to save Azeroth from total destruction, without the world being any the wiser as to her role into whatever events were to come. Perhaps the noblest of goals… to protect people who hate you, despise your doings (with good reason, one might add) and feel overall enraged at the thought of your existence. Why has she taken this mantle? Why is she risking so much on saving those that in her eyes did not deserve to be saved? A change of heart, perhaps… but surely someone so blackened already had no heart left? Was there still some elven blood still flowing through her veins, reminding her who she once was? I would have an answer to that eventually, but when my quest into the Blackrock Mountain depths began, I had my serious doubts Sylvanas was trying to use me for her own ends, like a puppeteer, controlling us all.

So why did I agree to do her bidding? The answer is you, Arcanna. We've been through a lot since we met on Silverpine, but I assure you I love you just as much as the moment when you laid unconscious on Sylvanas' skeletons' arms. I don't know why. Must there be a reason? Even maimed and on the verge of death as you were, you were still the most wonderful being I've seen in my entire life… and I assure you, I'm not inexperienced on the matter. None of them, absolutely _none_ of the women that have taken part of my life can even begin to think of comparing with your absolute and natural beauty.

As we began our descent through the Burning Steppes, Jastane at my side readying her sword and bow, the goblins manning the zeppelin frantically looking for a way to steer the vessel away from the searing inferno below us, I found that thinking about you, and hoping I would get to hold you in my arms once again just like that moment in Beren's Peril, was the only thing giving my heart strength to endure what was to come in hell's maw.

_(A small darkened spot, still moist, was present at the end of the letter , possibly indicating that a tear had fallen on the paper.)_


End file.
